While Manhattan Slept
by Pyun
Summary: Possible supplement to TO The Morning After. Ross tries to cope with his grief after leaving Rachel's apartment. Oneshot. Please read and review!


**While Manhattan Slept**

Author: Patrick

Snow was lightly falling over New York City. The wispy powder rode on the soft howls of the gusts that squeezed through the dimly lit alleyways of the city as the multitude of frozen precipitation careened helplessly towards the pavement, each flake looking for nothing more than a bare spot of cement or asphalt on which to settle after its lengthy descent.

Ross Geller stood alone on the balcony of his 6th floor apartment, drinking coffee and gazing absently at the urban fixtures around him. He pulled his overcoat tightly around his body, trying to seize every last inch of warmth that the soft, worn insulation of his garment had to offer and shivered as he took a another sip of coffee from the faded dinosaur mug he'd received two years ago as a gift from one of his colleagues at the museum. He didn't really know why he'd gone out there. The temperature was well below freezing, and he didn't have one of those spacious patios with a panoramic view of Central Park like he'd always dreamed of, but rather a modest chunk of pavement encircled by an unbecoming black metal fence from which he could see nothing more than the reflections of various lights dancing across the dark tinted windows of the adjacent high-rises and the subsiding bedlam of the street below.

He cast a wayward glance through the glass of the sliding door behind him, briefly tempted by the mute invitation of comfort and warmth he felt at the sight of his bed. A ghost of a smile formed on his face as he envisioned Rachel's peaceful, sleeping figure at rest there.

_No, _he thought as the smile melted off of his face.

_We're broken up. For good._

His reverie violently disintegrated as the events of the preceding day stampeded over the last fragments of serene thought he'd managed to assemble.

This was torture.

It was nearly 4 am and he desperately wanted to put some sleep between himself and the worst day of his life, and yet there was no place where he could lie comfortably without being distinctly reminded of some facet of his erstwhile girlfriend. And to remember one tiny detail was to relive the entire break-up all over again.

His bed was certainly out of the question. He'd cloistered himself ever since he left Monica's and Rachel's apartment that evening and hadn't had the energy to trek to the laundry room with his sheets, which in some places still held the lingering smell of the lotions and shampoos that made up Rachel's irresistibly feminine scent. Other portions of the linen, however, smelled of sweat mixed with alcohol and were speckled with glitter that had no doubt rubbed off of Chloe's naked body the night before. Ross recognized the trespass of letting the two occupy the same space and yet couldn't bring himself to move against the chimeric sin. Affixing different sheets wouldn't have made it any easier anyway – they were only a happenstance canvas for the sick play that was tearing his heart to pieces. He'd still ultimately made a choice to perform his role and no amount of fresh linen or detergent could change that.

Ross disregarded the couch for similar reasons. It would've been difficult enough that he and Rachel had made love there on a few occasions. The memory if he and Chloe tearing each other's clothes off in a drunken frenzy on the cushions 24 hours prior eliminated any hope whatsoever of finding respite there. He'd considered just falling asleep on the floor – personal comfort wasn't much of an issue – but he couldn't make peace with how farcical the idea seemed: In doing so, he would become an utter caricature of the misery he was trying to avoid.

He'd toyed with the idea of camping out on the deck, but the extreme cold kept the idea at an all-too-appropriate distance. Surviving the weather wasn't so much in doubt, but it seemed like falling sick from that kind of exposure was the least of all the unpleasant certainties that accompanied the scenario.

Yearning for a sympathetic male ear, Ross had briefly considered petitioning Joey and Chandler for a night on their couch, but quickly realized how absurd the idea was. Being only a few walls apart from Rachel would be maddening. And even if that wasn't enough, the fact that it was already 3 am when he left Monica's and Rachel's apartment was sufficient for him to think the better of waking the two men of apartment 19 under the present circumstances. He was a wreck, and he didn't want to coerce his friends into feeling responsible for his emotional well-being at such a late hour. They already knew about his drunken indiscretions with Chloe. They'd learn of Rachel's decision to end things soon enough if they didn't already know. If they wanted to feel sorry for him afterwards that was their call. He didn't feel deserving of sympathy or pity. He felt sure he wouldn't reject their compassion if it was offered, but he kept his expectations of any such kindness to a minimum.

The motivation to return indoors was fleeting and ambiguous at best, and yet was enough for the grieving scientist to find himself standing idly in the middle of the large room that comprised the majority of his apartment. He looked down at his mug.

Empty.

He trudged over to the coffee-maker and poured himself another cup of decaf and took a labored sip, focusing on the warmth of the brown liquid as it wet his lips and glided down his throat, spreading warmth to his frigid extremities. The mug seemed heavier presently than mugs ever had in the past, even the gaudy, oversized ones at Central Perk. He sat in reserved silence and sipped the coffee for several minutes before pouring the rest out in the sink and retiring to the bathroom.

Ross didn't bother to view himself in the mirror upon entering, feeling sure he looked like utter shit. He also didn't care to encounter any urges towards self-loathing; things were bad enough without throwing another encumbrance into the mix. Without really focusing on anything, he grasped his toothbrush, squeezed a neat layer of paste from the tube of Crest he'd withdrawn from the medicine cabinet atop the bristles, and went to work. The cool, minty flavor filled his mouth and the canonical drone of oral hygiene filled his ears as he worked, liberating his senses from their maudlin prison for the first time in hours. Afterwards, he splashed cold water on his face, largely unaffected by its temperature after his stay on the balcony. He winced a little as he rubbed a soapy lather on his chapped cheeks. After rinsing, he grabbed a towel off the rack and dried himself off, hiding his face in the soft darkness of it for a moment before returning it to its normal hanging spot and vacating the bathroom.

As he passed through the bathroom door into his own room, he again noted the bed. He began to feel conceit welling up within him, realizing with assurance that depriving himself entirely of sleep to avoid Rachel's ghost would be more to his detriment than to his aid. Exasperation and fatigue pricked his eyes and tears started to well up in his eyes.

Suddenly, Ross lunged towards the bed, his fingers extended as rigid claws in front of him. With possessed efficacy he ripped the sheets from the bed, throwing them violently into the corner of his room. At one point, he heard a pillow case tear slightly as he pulled it off a pillow, but it only spurred his frenzy. One by one, he threw pieces of the set into the corner until only a bare mattress and uncovered pillows remained. He turned his attention to the discarded pile, his feelings of rage and self-resentment rising to a fiery zenith. He collapsed on them, his fists pummeling the helpless fabric wildly, his voice hoarsely screaming proclamations of hate and demanding explanations. At one point, his fist missed the mark and plunged through the drywall above. Ross doubled backwards like a terrified child, gripping his fist in pain and moaning morosely. He laid on the floor in agony for moments, letting tears run unchecked down his face. Eventually, exhaustion once again set in. Without standing, Ross dragged himself to the mattress and flopped on top of it. Looking to his right he saw a small framed picture of Rachel. It was a picture he'd randomly taken in his apartment on a non-descript day during their relationship. Her hair was in loose ponytail and she was wearing a grey sweatshirt, obviously belonging to Ross as its superior size dwarfed her small frame. She was resting her chin in her hand in a cute and flirtatious pose and flashing an adorable toothy grin.

The picture had quickly become Ross's favorite. There certainly been times where Rachel had looked more elegant, and looked more stunning in an obvious way. But there was something about how the photo highlighted her slight coyness and natural beauty that drew Ross to it. He also loved her smile in that picture because he felt like he understood it so well; it was as if even in a still shot, they could share something that was beyond the comprehension of anyone else in the world.

"I'm sorry," he implored through a mist of tears.

The picture responded with mute disapproval.

Ross broke into sobs as he clutched the frame to his chest. He would have to hide the picture away soon enough; keeping it around was not only too painful a reminder but would also be a strange violation if done for too long. But tonight he needed it. Tonight he needed to know that she existed, that it hadn't all been a delusion, and that at one point Rachel Green did in fact love him. He knew full well that there would be hard times ahead, but he couldn't think about that now. It'd taken his all just to survive this far into the night.

"I love you," he whispered to the figure in the frame, hoping inwardly that through some alternate plane of reality, his words would bring Rachel some much-deserved comfort.

With no words left to be spoken, and with a hope that the hardest part was now behind him, Ross cried himself into a fitful sleep.


End file.
